


A Northern Storm

by TheRealSokka



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU from the start of Season 5 onwards, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSokka/pseuds/TheRealSokka
Summary: (AU)In the North beyond the Wall, Bran is trying to make a difference in whatever ways he can. Even if that takes him on a different path than perhaps his teacher intended.At the Wall, Jon is trying to mediate between King Stannis, the Night's Watch and the Wildlings - as well as between his own desires and his duty to the Watch.In Winterfell, Sansa is navigating the maze of Littlefinger's political game, surrounded by her enemies. Determinded to make the Boltons pay for what they have done, she discovers unlikely allies amidst the hell that Ramsey has designed for her.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Meera Reed/Bran Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43





	1. The Summer Child

Bran Stark opened his eyes. 

It took a moment for them to adjust to the darkness and for his mind to fully arrive in the present. He felt the soft earth beneath him, and a root digging uncomfortably into his back. Traces of something else lingered on the edge of his consciousness and he wasn’t sure what he had woken up from, whether it had been a vision or a dream – the two had become nigh indistinguishable of late. The memory was hazy and unfocused, and Bran couldn’t remember exactly what it had been about. Probably just a dream, then. He could usually remember the visions clearly.

He looked around. There wasn’t much to see: aside from the white weirwood roots that ran everywhere and Hodor sitting in the corner, the room, if you could even call it that, was bare. Except for the Raven, of course.

The old man hung a few feet away from Bran in the tree, the roots snaking through him and keeping him alive. His eyes looked vaguely in the boy’s direction, but they were white and sightless. He was somewhere far away. Bran sighed. There were times when he wished nothing more than to be able to see all the things the Raven could see, but at other times, like now, he was instead glad that he was _not_ in his position, stuck in a tree for all eternity. Though, if Bran was honest with himself, he already wasn’t that much better off. His legs were useless so he had to rely on Hodor to get anywhere and he couldn’t leave this cave any more than his mentor could, lest the dead got their claws on him like they had Jojen.

This train of thought had made Bran more miserable than anything else. He needed to do something, or he was going to go insane. “Hodor.” he called.

Hodor sat up from his position and rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Hodor?” he asked.

“Yes. Can you take me out of here for a moment?”

“Hodor?”

“Up.” Bran clarified, pointing at the ceiling. Understanding dawned on the giant’s face and he walked over, gathering Bran up in his arms and heading for a tunnel that led outside. ‘Up’ might have been a very vague direction, but Hodor seemed to know where Bran wanted to go. He had taken him there frequently, after all.

The tunnel – Bran didn’t know if the children had made it or if it was a natural hollow – always seemed longer than it really was; the end receding into the distance like an illusion until you already stood right in front of it. It was as if the Raven’s cave was unwilling to acknowledge the outside in any way and did its best to push it away, Bran mused while Hodor sat him down to push open the heavy wooden door at the end of the tunnel. He flinched a little at the bright light flooding in and had to squint against the sun. It had to be midday. Time was impossible to measure down in the cave.

Outside, the world was a sea of white, only broken up in places by the black peaks of ridges and boulders jutting out of the snow. Already there were considerably less of them than when Bran had first set sight on them, when they had arrived here a few months ago. Most were now buried under the white blanket. As distant as the world sometimes seemed in the cave, time hadn’t stopped while he was down there and neither had the winter. I was steadily creeping closer, devouring the world as it went. Soon there would be nothing left at all.

Aside from this lone tree jutting out of its hill. And Meera.

Her figure sat hunched in her usual spot, a few meters away from the white tree trunk. The scraping noises and sparks flying away from her told Bran that she had found a stone to sharpen her knife on. It was what she mostly did these says, aside from using the knife to carve etchings into the wood. Bran had wanted to persuade her to take on of the children’s dragonglass daggers, instead, but in the end he’d never brought up the matter. Somehow he knew that his friend wouldn’t part from that knife.

“Hey.” he greeted. Hodor sat him down a couple of feet behind Meera, so he could prop himself up against the roots

Meera turned around. “Hey.” she returned, looking him over. “No lessons today?”

“No. He’s looking at something else now. I don’t know what. But,” Bran added, excited to tell her of his progress, “he’s been teaching me to warg into animals that are much farther away than before! Yesterday I flew a raven south, to see how long I could control it, and I saw the Wall!”

“That’s…far.” Meer said reluctantly. “That’s good, right?”

Bran’s mood dampened a little. “Not good enough. The Raven said I wasn’t thinking in the right dimensions yet. I have to do better next time.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure you’ll get it.” She went back to sharpening her knife.

“Have you seen Summer?” Bran tried. He desperately wanted to keep talking to her, but already he could feel her slipping away again. It always went like this. “He wasn’t with me when I woke up.”

“I think he’s still out hunting – whatever he can find out there.” she replied. She didn’t turn around.

Bran felt a heavy weight form in his chest. Ever since Jojen, Meera had kept this distance from him, a distance that hadn’t been there before. The death of her brother had hit her hard, and since then nothing had been the same. He knew she hated this place; he could see it every time she looked at the Children or at the Raven. After a while she had stopped coming into the cave almost entirely. Sometimes Bran found her watching him when he woke from another vision, but she always left once she noticed he was awake. The only times Bran ever got to talk to her was out here.

He missed Meera. He missed her cheerful grins. He missed listening to her snarky arguments with Osha. He missed the stories she used to tell him by the campfires; the one of Bran the Builder; of the frog and the spell-weaver; of the tourney at Harrenhal and the Knight of the Laughing Tree (Bran had known that one already, but hadn’t said as much, since he didn’t want Meera to stop telling it. She was a good story-teller.) Really, he just missed his friend. Even though she was sitting only a few feet away, it felt like miles. It wasn’t fair.

“Are you angry with me?” he blurted out.

The blade stopped scratching over the stone. Meera sat it down carefully and turned around, her expression unreadable. “What? Why would I be angry with you?”

“It seems like you are.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Bran swallowed. For a moment he considered whether he should say this, but he had to get it off his chest. “I’m sorry for what happened to Jojen. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t know what would happen…”

“My brother knew.” Meera cut him off, dropping her whetstone into the snow. Now she did look angry, though if at him he couldn’t tell. “He knew exactly what would happen to him. He chose to come anyway. That’s not on you.”

“But it feels like it is.” Bran said earnestly. “I’m really sorry. I don’t want… You never talk to me anymore. I just want to know if you’re alright.”

His friend snorted, and Bran had never heard her sound that bitter. “Alright? Of course I’m not _alright_. My brother was the only one I had for – well, forever, and now he’s gone. He’s never going to come home to Greywater Watch and neither am I. They won’t even know where we are. And you, you’re off dreaming all the time, so…” Meera cut herself off with a frustrated grunt and jumped to her feet, starting to pace.

“I have to learn.” Bran said defensively. There was a small part of him that added, _And it feels good to escape from this body that can’t walk, climb or do anything for himself_ , but Bran tried his best to ignore that part. Having these dreams and visions was his duty; so what if he started to like them more than his own reality? “I have to know everything the Raven knows before winter comes. There’s so much of it. I don’t know if I can do it all.”

“Yes, you have to learn. I know.” Meera stopped pacing and looked at him. Her deep green eyes shone with something Bran couldn’t identify at first, before he realized that it was frustration. “But what do I do? I can’t dream like you or Jojen. I can’t do anything. I can’t feed us, I can’t hunt or fish or explore, because we can’t leave this stupid tree. All else I know is to fight, and the Children already keep us safe, or so they say. What am I doing here, Bran?”

He opened his mouth to say something – and closed it again, with everything unsaid.

“Nothing.” she answered her own question. “I don’t even know what we are doing here. Why have your and Jojen’s visions led us here?”

“The dead are threatening everything. I have to be able to see.” Bran said. That was what the Raven had told him. That he had to learn to see before the Long Night came.

And that Bran had to take his place. That he had to give up everything and _become_ like the old man in the tree.

“But did he tell you what you are learning it for?” Meera lowered her head as all the energy suddenly seemed to drain out of her. It looked wrong; not like her at all. “My brother may have been content not knowing, or maybe he did know; I’m not sure. But I have to. What is the end goal here? The dead are going south, away from us. They’ll meet the Wall soon, and then the rest of the North. What can we do from this cave that would make any difference?”

“I need to learn to see.” Bran repeated desperately.

„What does that help?“ Meera asked.

_What did my brother die for?_

Bran swallowed thickly. “It will.” he said, with all the confidence he could muster.

Meera looked at him and it was clear she didn’t believe it. In the white shine of the snow, Bran could see once again how much she loathed this place. Her expression held frustration – but there was also a kind of acceptance. With a painful jolt, Bran realized that she would stay with him no matter what. Despite everything.

His friend gave a hollow little nod and turned away, returning her gaze to the empty landscape.

Bran wished he could say something, anything, to make this better. That he could promise her they’d go back soon, or even that what they did here had a purpose. But even in his head those promises sounded empty. He didn’t know enough and he was just as boy with a broken body, stuck at the end of the world. What did it help that he could see distant people and events when he couldn’t change them?

A snowflake landed on his shoulder, melting instantly. Others soon followed, dancing in front of Bran’s face as if mocking him and his futile efforts. Behind him, Hodor got to his feet and tried to catch some of them, blundering noisily through the snow and muttering excited ‘Hodor’-s. In that moment, Bran wished he could trade places with him: forget all his troubles as easily as that and chase after snowflakes. Sometimes he envied the gentle giant.

Meera’s back was still to him. The two of them and Summer were all he had left. He would probably never see his family again – like her, if she stayed with him. But she couldn’t see in the same way that he could. If he focussed well enough, he might be able to look at Winterfell and see his sisters, his mother and brothers – if they were still alive. Maybe. It might only be a distant look into their lives, but Meera didn’t even have that.

“Meera?” he asked, surprising himself.

His friend turned her head half towards him, her eyes questioning.

With a grunt, Bran heaved himself onto his elbows and crawled to her. Meera made a move like she wanted to stand up and help him, but he quickly shook his head. For once, he didn’t want to depend on her help. She’d done enough for him already.

When he reached her, he propped himself up on his arms and met her eyes. “I want to try something.” he said, before reason could catch up and remind him how unlikely this was to succeed. “I don’t know if it’s going to work, but…” his voice trailed off uncertainly.

Meera cocked her head to the side. Her guarded expression started to morph into something more curious. “Well – you won’t know unless you try, right?”

“Right.” Bran agreed. Of course she was right. He had to try. He breathed out deeply, holding her eyes. They were a dark green, almost as stark as Jojen’s had been. He kept that image in his mind as he focused, reaching out through the roots of the Weirwood tree beneath them.

The next moment, he felt his eyes roll up in his head and suddenly they were seeing completely different images: faces he didn’t know; events passing to fast to comprehend; places coming and going in the span of a heartbeat. A hundred different doors to go through, and thousands more behind them. As always, it was overwhelming. Bran didn’t know how the Raven could do it all the time. All he knew was that in the chaos, he needed something to focus on, to remember where and who he really was.

 _Green eyes_. _Like a forest glade in summer._

With that image at the back of his mind, Bran started looking through the maelstrom as best he could, trying to find the one speck he wanted to see. He had never gone this far before and it took all his concentration not to get lost. But then he felt a new sensation he’d never felt before; something like a strong tug at his chest, pulling him forward as if on an invisible string. It was almost as if the vision wanted to be found. Abruptly, all the other doors vanished and he was there.

Once he saw it clearly, Bran took a moment to watch and imprint it in his memory. This was _much_ farther than he’d gone before, he thought proudly. Then he snapped out of it, leaving the body of a crow to return to that of the crippled boy lying on the snowed weirwood roots. Meera was hovering over him, concern written on her face. Her hands moved to his shoulders to steady him. “Bran? Are you back?”

He nodded haltingly. When he went and came back, it always took a while before his body remembered how to move correctly in its confines. Sometimes he caught himself trying to move his legs, forgetting. It didn’t seem like much time had passed, but he could never tell that with certainty, either.

He met Meera’s eyes. He opened his mouth to describe it to her – and then closed it again. It just wasn’t enough. His memory held every detail, but he wasn’t good enough with words to give this to her just by describing it.

A stupid idea took root in his head. On impulse, Bran took Meera’s hand from where it rested on his shoulder, linking their fingers. She acknowledged his action with a look of confusion, but she didn’t move to pull away. “Bran?”

“Do you trust me?”

Bran winced internally at his own question. She’d have every right to say No. She probably would.

But Meera’s face smoothed into open curiosity and she nodded. “Of course I do, Bran. Why?”

“Oh. Alright.” Bran resisted the urge to twist his hands. She trusted him. Somehow that just made him more nervous. Would this even work? “Ah, you should look around for a moment. Find something that reminds you where you are.”

“Okay…” Meera replied, a faint hint of amusement sneaking into her voice.

“Really, I mean it. You could get lost otherwise. Find anything to hold onto.”

Meera caught the seriousness in his tone and her expression became serious as well. She nodded, looking into Bran’s eyes to show him she understood. “Alright. Now what…”

Bran squeezed her hand a little tighter – reassurance for her or for him, he wasn’t sure – and concentrated. This time there was an immediate sharp tug as he went back into the vision. This time, the maelstrom of images condensed almost immediately into the one he had found earlier, the slightly warped view from a crow’s eye, sitting atop a lonely, tall pine tree.

Settling into the new body, Bran looked around. The bird sat alone on this tree, but Bran didn’t feel alone like he had before. For the first time, it felt as if someone were there with him in the vision; a warming presence. In that moment he knew that it _had_ worked. Meera was seeing the same image he was seeing.

The thought made him almost giddy with excitement. Sadly, the crow’s beak couldn’t smile. Bran instead focused its eyes on the scenery in front of them. Below, a bog stretched from horizon to horizon. As far the crow could see there was nothing but marshland, muddy waters, sparse trees and reed swaying in the currents of unseen streams beneath. And, right below the pine tree, a castle.

It hardly deserved the name, if one were to compare it to the likes of Winterfell or even the ruined Nightfort, appearing not much larger than the former’s main courtyard. Its walls were composed of woven reeds, its towers low, sturdy wooden constructions. A gate was missing entirely. It wouldn’t take more than a single fire arrow to set it all aflame. And yet it was a castle that had never been conquered, Bran knew.

The reason betrayed itself in the slight waves that stirred in the waters on the eastern side of the castle, and the water plants moving almost imperceptibly back into place where the castle had just been. The castle’s movement itself was so subtle that even Bran, who knew it was there, barely saw it. Any other foreigner who did would probably think that the swamp air was playing tricks on their mind – after all, things like moving castles existed only in children’s tales and the boasts of the occasional crannogman who’d ventured beyond his swamp and had looked a little too deep into the ale tankard.

Instead of confusion at the sight, Bran felt joy. That was always his reaction whenever he discovered something new, and, for a while at least, it made him forget about the broken body he would have to return to soon. He might never become a knight, but he saw things that most men never would and couldn’t even imagine. Through the mist, he could see people milling about behind the walls. He saw archers training, fishermen carrying their haul, and, atop one of the towers, a man with a raven on his shoulder watching it all. Bran would have loved to just watch for a while longer and enjoy losing himself in this.

But, his conscience reminded him, you can’t.

The castle began to fade away, recede into the distance until it was only one small spot in a kaleidoscope of others, all churning around him endlessly. Then that faded, too, and Bran found himself back on the cold snow, one hand clasped around the tree roots and his friend’s hand in the other.

Meera’s breath was coming in gasps, her eyes were wide. Her fingers suddenly tightened painfully around Bran’s, before pulling away just as quickly. It was her first time experiencing a vision, Bran realized with guilt. He should have thought to warn her better. Then her head snapped around to him. “Was that… How did you do that?”

A hesitant smile broke over his face. “So you did see all that? It worked?”

She nodded haltingly. Her eyes clouded over. “Home.” she whispered. There was so much longing in that one word. The next second her eyes cleared and they were seeing him again. “Was it a vision? Is that how you see things?”

“Yes. But I’ve never gone that far before.”

“It felt – real. Like I was really there. Jojen described it differently.”

Bran thought for a moment. “I think he saw differently, Meera. I’m not really a greenseer – at least I don’t feel like one. Visions are so difficult, but with animals, even when they’re far away,” he made a vague gesture, “it feels easier, seeing what they see. It’s so much more vivid and… _there_.”

“Hm.” Meera pondered on that for a long moment. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “It seems easy to get lost in that.”

Bran turned away uneasily. Sometimes he felt like those brilliant green eyes could see right through him.

“Bran?” Meera flicked his arm, and he reluctantly turned back. There was no judgement on her face, just warmth. “Thank you. For showing me.”

Bran felt colour rise to his cheeks. “You’re – you’re welcome. I just thought you – I miss home, too.” he admitted. He glanced away. “And I, well, I always wanted to see your castle, actually. I hoped my father would take me one day.”

“If we ever get out of this frozen waste, I’ll take you.” Meera promised.

“Really?”

“Really. But you’d have to swear by the Gods never to tell any soul of it.” She gave him a slight nudge. “You’d be one of very few outsiders to have ever seen Greywater Watch, my prince. Though – I suppose now you already have. Hm. By rights I should make you swear right now.”

"I can keep it to myself. But how does it move like that?!" Bran wanted to know, brimming with curiosity.

To his surprise, Meera grinned at him – actually _grinned_ ; a smug, wolfish grin. "You expect me to divulge my family's best-kept secret? Just like that?"

Bran felt absurdly light, seeing her smile again. "You don’t trust me? Here I thought we were friends!"

"You'll have to do better than that, my prince."

"Alright." Bran shrugged. "I'll just go back to the founding of the castle and figure it out myself, then."

He didn't realize what he was saying until the words had already left his mouth. There was no reply and Bran turned to see that his friend's eyes had gone wide. "What?! That’s something you can do?" Meera whispered.

Bran rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He felt uncomfortable just thinking about this power, much less talking about it. "The Raven’s started teaching me to look to the past now. I think I can do it, but it's much harder. There's so much of it. I probably wouldn't come anywhere close to when Greywater Watch was built."

Meera had an unreadable look on her face. It was usually so expressive that it was easy to read, but now there was too much passing over it too quickly. "That's..." she began and paused for a long moment. "...amazing." she finally decided.

"Scary." Bran muttered.

"That too." Meera worried her lower lip with her teeth. "So you can see far away things that happen right now... you can see things that have already happened...what about- you know..."

"The future?" Bran shook his head. "No."

"Isn't he teaching you that?"

"Not for a long time." he repeated Bloodravens words to her. "I'm not ready."

“Maybe that’s for the best.” she muttered. “The future can be dangerous.”

“But it would be useful to know it, wouldn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t want to know mine.” Her expression was suddenly dead-serious, her eyes boring into him imploringly. “Promise me you’ll never look into my future! I don’t want to know.”

“I won’t.” Bran promised. He doubted he would even be able to do that for a long time, if ever. And even if he could, the thought of looking into Meera’s future felt – wrong. Like he’d be spying on his friend. No.

The snow was falling steadily now, settling on their faces and clothes before melting away. With no wind to stir them, the snowflakes looked strangely beautiful as they fell, Bran thought. They sat in silence, gazing out across the empty landscape. The only noise was Hodor’s occasional exclamations whenever he had caught a snowflake.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bran saw movement in the white. He turned to see a small grey speck racing across the snow, as yet far off in the distance. It vanished twice behind a ridge, before reappearing from behind a third only yards away from them and turning into the familiar shape of Bran’s direwolf.

The boy felt the smile return to his face as Summer bounded towards him, covering the remaining distance with awesome speed. An instant later, Bran found himself on his back with one forepaw settled on his chest and a wet tongue giving attentions to his face. He was too breathless with laughter to do anything but accept the enthusiastic welcome.

“Alright, I think he got it.” Meera finally took pity on his situation and pushed the wolf off his chest. Summer snarled and snapped in her direction, but it was all in play. The two of them respected each other like only two hunters could, Bran knew.

Sitting up to wipe the slobber off his face, he noticed that Summer’s muzzle was red with blood. He must have made a fresh kill. Bran stroked his nose fondly. The direwolf was almost twice as big as him now and quite able to survive on his own, even though Bran sometimes still couldn’t help but see the small puppy that leapt onto his bed or tried to follow him into trees. The same playfulness was still there, but tempered with the experiences of their path. Summer’s amber eyes shone with an intelligent certainty whenever he came back from his hunts. Bran wished he could be that certain.

“He’s been away for a while.” Meera commented. “Longer than the last time, and that was longer than the one before that. There’s no game here anymore. Everything is moving south.”

“I know. There’s just a few ravens left that I can warg into, but Summer won’t go near them. I think he senses Bloodraven.”

As if the old man had heard his name being spoken, Bran felt the familiar tugging at the back of his mind right before the ancient voice spoke. It was thin with age, but still carried an authority that expected to be obeyed without question. _It’s time. Follow Leaf_.

Bran turned around to see the small figure crouching a few steps behind them. As always she hadn’t made a sound, not even Summer had heard her. She fixed him with those unreadable green eyes and beckoned, before vanishing into the hollow that led to the heart of the tree.

Meera had followed Bran’s movement, noticing the Child of the Forest as well. “I wish they wouldn’t do that. I swear, sometimes they just show up out of nowhere just to scare me. No one should be allowed to be that silent.”

Bran nodded absentmindedly. “I have to go. He is expecting me.”

A shadow fell over her face. “Back to the visions. Right.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “Try asking the Raven what exactly you’ll be using them for, alright? Because if the answer is just ‘to see’ again, I’ll make sure to sit in that cave and pester him until he comes up with something more practical.”

As funny as it was to imagine that, it also made Bran slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t think he’d like that. And he’s teaching me so much – there has to be a reason for it.”

Meera sighed. “Probably. But sometimes I wish you wouldn’t trust people so easily. You’re putting a lot of stock by what that old man is saying. I-,“ she cleared her throat, suddenly looking anxious, “ I just don’t want you to become a white-eyed husk stuck in a tree. That’s not you, my prince.”

 _Then what am I?_ Bran wanted to ask. Without this, without what the Raven was teaching him, he was just a useless cripple stuck at the end of the world. His family was a world away and thought him dead; his childhood home was a burned ruin; the dead were marching south; and there wasn’t a thing Bran the cripple could do about any of it. He had followed the Raven’s call all this way because he felt in his bones that this was what he was meant to do, and…

When _was_ the last time he had done anything but follow what the Raven told him?

Bran bristled at the thought. A sliver of doubt entered his mind. Thinking about it like this, it made him look like little more than a puppet. Maybe he _should_ start demanding answers. Or try to find them for himself. He had his visions. And he _could_ see much farther than he’d thought. Perhaps it was up to him to do something, even though he was painfully aware that he hadn’t learned nearly enough yet. But by the time he had – who knew what the dead might have done, what might have happened to the people he cared about? He looked at Meera. And then at Summer.

Spontaneously, he beckoned the direwolf closer. He reached for his shoulder and loosened the wolfs head brooch that held up his cloak. “Meera?” he called. “Can you tie this around his neck?”

His friend looked at him quizzically. She took the brooch from his hand and inspected it. “Sure I can. What are you up to?”

“Like you said. We can’t just sit here.” This wouldn’t change much, but at least it gave Bran the feeling that he was doing _something_. He focused on Summer, who was looking at him expectantly. “You have to go back the way we came.” Bran told him. “To the Wall. Find Jon and show him this. He’ll know it’s from me. He’ll know we’re still alive.” Summer didn’t blink, and Bran knew he understood. He gave a short bark and padded over to Meera.

Meera hesitated for a moment before kneeling down to secure the brooch around his neck. “Is that wise, Bran? It’s a long way down to the Wall, even for a wolf. What if he runs into the dead on the way?”

“He won’t. He’s too smart for them.” Bran said. He met the direwolf’s intelligent yellow eyes, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of sadness. In truth he didn’t want Summer to leave him, too – but Jon was perhaps the only family he had left aside from Rickon. And he needed somebody to know that he wasn’t dead, that he was trying to help as best as he could. More importantly though, so did Meera. “Sam knows you’re travelling with me.” he argued. “Maybe he’ll find a way to tell your family. We should let them know we’re still alive, shouldn’t we?”

Meera looked torn. “I want to. I just don’t think we should risk letting the dead find out, too…” Suddenly she squared her shoulders, something steely entering her eyes. “But you’re right. And the Raven is wrong. We can’t change anything if we’re all isolated from the world up here. If this gets to them – I don’t know, maybe we can figure something out.” She finished her work and stood up. “There.”

“Will it hold?” Bran experimentally nudged the brooch dangling from Summer’s neck.

“Crannogwoman’s knot.” Meera grinned. “It’ll hold, trust me.”

“Alright.” Bran took a fistful of Summer’s fur, pressing his face to his wolf’s. Summer nearly threw him over in cuddling into him. Bran silently sent a prayer to the Old Gods. _Please, let nothing happen to him._ Before he could change his mind, he pulled away and gestured southward. “Go. Run like you’re chasing Grey Wind back home. Find Jon.”

Summer licked his face one last time. Then he raced off, a streak of grey over the pristine snow. At the first ridge, he suddenly stopped and looked back.

“Go!” Bran called. “I’ll be fine.” Summer stood looking back for another moment. Then he bounded away and vanished behind the ridge.

“You don’t deserve that wolf.” Meera sighed.

“I know.” Bran said. He tried to make out the grey fur in the distance, but already it was gone. Suddenly he felt cold. His eyes were starting to sting.

A hand squeezed his shoulder. Another took his chin and insistently turned his face around to her. “I was kidding.” Meera said, smiling at him. “You do. You really do. You’re a good man, Bran Stark. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you don’t deserve something.”

“I…” Bran faltered, completely uncertain what to say. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Meera straightened up. “Now let’s get you back inside, before you freeze up on me. Come on.”

 _A good man_. Bran wished he could be as sure as Meera. She still trusted him. For her sake, he had to be better. He had to try harder to get to the point where the Raven wanted him to be. Even if he had to question the instructions he gave him. If he didn’t have the courage to see and to act on what he saw, everything they had been through might as well all have been for nothing.


	2. The Key to the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Stark is back in Winterfell.

In the distance, the silhouette of the fortress was shrouded in mist, but it was unmistakeable nonetheless. The round towers, the stark grey walls and, visible just above them, the red leaves of the great weirwood tree – it was such a familiar sight and yet had become so distant in her memory that it brought tears to Sansa Stark’s eyes. _Winterfell_. _Home. Finally_.

“Welcome home.” said Littlefinger’s voice beside her.

Sansa couldn’t tell what the inflection was. Condescending? Amused? Sincere, for once? When she turned her head to look at him, his face gave nothing away, as it seldom did. He motioned ahead of them invitingly. “Shall we?”

They spurred on their horses once more, Sansa discretely drying her tears on her riding coat. She didn’t want Petyr to see them, much less the Boltons, who would be waiting for them. The thought made her shudder. The traitors who murdered her family would soon be her hosts – and one of them would be her betrothed. She forced her thoughts in another direction before new tears, this time born of anger, could form in her eyes. _Patience, Sansa_.

She wouldn’t give them anything. Her tears had just been a short moment of weakness, and it wouldn’t happen again. Sansa was done crying. She had begun to play the game and, for better or worse, this was where it had lead her. Back home, after close to four years in the South where she’d been forced to watch everything being taken from her. Now she was going to take it back.

The lookouts on the watchtowers spied them long in advance and by the time Sansa and her entourage arrived at the gates they had already been opened for them. As they rode underneath the portcullis, Sansa took note of the banner decorating the gatehouse where the direwolf used to be: the flayed man, hung upside down on his cross, as if to mock her. A flash of anger coursed through her, and it took some self-control for it not to show on her face.

Lord Bolton was already awaiting them in the courtyard. Sansa had never met the man before, but Petyr had described the Lord of the Dreadfort at length, and even without that the commanding air that surrounded him would have given him away. Most of what her confidante had told her about Roose Bolton had been warnings not to underestimate him. Looking at him now, Sansa thought she could see why.

He watched them ride in and dismount, making no move to meet them. His stature was nothing imposing – in fact, he looked almost small against the tall soldiers standing behind him – but everything about his demeanour said that he was in command here. His cloak hung loosely around him, enlarging his otherwise gaunt figure, and for a brief moment Sansa wondered if it might be made from human skin. She shook her head. She was being ridiculous.

Next to Lord Bolton stood a man who had to be his bastard son. He looked nothing like his father, but seemed to have made an effort to appear that way, having dressed in very similar garments and adopting the same posture as the Lord of the Dreadfort. Sansa surveyed him closely. This was the big unknown variable in Littlefinger’s plan – he himself had confessed that he knew close to nothing about Lord Bolton’s bastard whom she was going to marry. For her own safety, she would have to get to know this man as soon as possible. The smile that he sent her way as he noticed she was watching him was polite enough, joyful, even. That could mean anything or nothing. Sansa was quick to answer it with a smile of her own.

Petyr took her by the hand and led her to the waiting trio, the third member of which was a plump barrel of a woman who couldn’t have looked more out of place. _Lady Walda Bolton_ , Sansa remembered, _recently married to Roose Bolton_. The woman was a head shorter than both men, but at least twice them in width. Her face was wide and expressive and completely lacked the stone-faced stoicism of the Boltons. As they approached, she gave Sansa a smile that looked genuine.

Petyr signalled a bow: “My lords, my lady. I present you Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Sansa stepped forward, curtsying before Lord Bolton first. “It is an honour to meet you, my lord.” she muttered with carefully measured shyness.

“The honour is all mine, Lady Stark.” Roose Bolton inclined his head. His eyes never left her all the while. They looked pale and lifeless, like a fish’s that had been swept ashore. Sansa was just beginning to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny when he gestured at his son beside him. “This is my lawful son, Ramsey. I see I could not have found a better match for him.”

Ramsey Bolton straightened even more. He stepped forward and kissed Sansa’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” he said. “You are even more beautiful than I had heard.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Littlefinger and Roose Bolton shook hands. “Any news of Stannis?” asked Littlefinger, immediately skipping the rest of the formalities. Sansa sent him a disapproving look. Etiquette demanded she be introduced to Lady Bolton as well, but apparently her confidante had decided that engaging his ally directly was more beneficial. With Littlefinger, it was always about how to turn a situation to his advantage. And from what she had seen, he seldom misjudged.

“I imagined you would be better informed of that than I am.” the Lord of the Dreadfort replied drily. “But no; nothing yet. The last my scouts told me he was still at Castle Black, readying his army. But, as the Starks were fond of saying, winter is coming. He will have to march soon or not at all.”

Littlefinger smiled airily. “Stannis is stubborn, but his army is nothing to speak of. I trust you will be able to defeat them handily.”

“It would be considerably easier if your knights of the Vale were to fight alongside us, Lord Baelish. Can we expect their arrival soon?”

“That decision, I’m afraid, lies in the hands of my lord. I will, of course, do everything in my power to convince him…”

A hand touched Sansa’s arm and she jumped a little, turning her head to be met with Lady Walda Bolton’s anxious, wide face. “War is all they talk of here.” the other woman whispered. “Apologies, Lady Stark. This is not a good welcome.”

Sansa smiled. “It’s alright. Unfortunately, war seems to be inevitable. The men are doing well to prepare for it, to keep us safe.”

Walda grunted, a surprisingly un-ladylike noise. “I suppose. Still, I’m glad you are here now, my lady. This place desperately needs a woman’s touch, and there’s only so much these hands of mine can do, larger than most though they may be.” She waggled her fat wingers demonstratively.

Sansa decided she liked her. The woman appeared a bit simple, but there was no guile in her words, and that alone elevated her above most people Sansa had met in the past few years. “I’m looking forward to it.” she promised.

“As am I.” Ramsey Bolton said. Sansa had thought he had been listening to the two lords’ conversation, but apparently not. His grey eyes were trained on her, and she didn’t like the calculating look in them. Then it was gone and the smile was back on his lips. “Anyway, given your warden’s responsibilities, we thought the wedding should take place as soon as possible. Tomorrow night under the weirwood tree, as is custom.”

“Tomorrow?” Sansa glanced at Petyr, but he was still engaged in conversation with Roose Bolton. The Bolton’s were anxious to bring her under their thumb, it seemed. But she supposed it didn’t matter whether the wedding took place the next day or the next week. She nodded, sending him a smile. “That’s quite swift. But I am not at all opposed, Lord Ramsey. My parents were married in the godswood as well.”

“Let us hope our union will be as long and happy as theirs.” Ramsey’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “And that it won’t end quite as abruptly.”

Sansa faltered at the sudden turn. She couldn’t think of a polite reply. Thankfully, Petyr seemed to have noticed their exchange and stepped towards them, addressing the young Bolton: “Apologies, my lord, but I must excuse your soon-to-be betrothed for a moment. Would you allow us to visit the crypts? Lady Sansa wishes to pay her respects to her father, and so would I. Ned was a dear friend to me.”

A sharp jolt of pain shot through Sansa at the mention of her father’s name. The memory still haunted her. It was quickly followed by anger that Petyr was pretending to care for him in the same way.

“Certainly.” Lord Bolton replied in his son’s stead. He gestured for one of his men. “Escort our guests to the crypt, but give them some privacy – to mourn.” His pale eyes lingered on Littlefinger for a moment before moving on to Sansa. He signalled a bow. “My condolences, my lady. Lord Stark’s execution took us all by surprise.”

“…Thank you.” Sansa managed. She didn’t dare say anything more, lest her mouth might betray her. She was just glad for an excuse to get away from them.

“Catelyn’s death was less of a surprise to him.” Littlefinger whispered to her in the moment they walked away, while the guards were still forming up to escort them. His mouth had a hard slant; a rare betrayal of emotion. Then the Bolton captain stepped up and gestured for them to follow, and Littlefinger was all smiles again.

The entrance to the crypt was set almost hidden away underneath an archway of the keep, two grey wolf statues flanking the black hollow. Sansa had never paid much attention to it. She had never liked the crypt. As soon as they entered, the air became cooler, and ominously still. In the torchlight, her breath was suddenly visible as misty clouds in the air. Beyond it, allowing for only a few feet’s view ahead, she could make out a stone stairwell leading downwards. Littlefinger wasted no time in descending it. Somewhat more reluctantly, she followed.

They had to be a long way below ground when the narrow stairs finally opened up into a larger space. The torches flickered in a gust of wind from above, the dancing light illuminating smooth grey walls – and an alcove hewn into them, inhabited by a sarcophagus and the tall, featureless statue of a man. By his feet crouched a great stone wolf, watching them with grey, empty eyes.

Sansa swallowed, awfully reminded of her Lady. Quickly she followed after Petyr and the soldiers. Beyond the first, more alcoves loomed out of the darkness, each with statues whose faces had been eroded away by time. Most had direwolves by their sides. She found it hard to look at them, so she focused her eyes on the cloak of the soldier in front of her instead. There was an echo to every footfall down here which made it sound like their party was twice as large as it was. In the otherwise complete silence of the crypt, it felt like they were intruding upon the rest of the dead.

If Littlefinger shared her uncomfortable feeling, no trace of it showed on his face when he turned around to their guards. “We would like to pay our respects. Alone; would you mind?” he said, voice normal. It, too, sounded too loud.

The Bolton captain gave a slight bow, signalling his men to move away. He propped his torch into a sconce by an alcove and left Sansa and Littlefinger by themselves, retreating a respectful distance to give the mourners some privacy. Sansa still caught the hushed end of the captain’s orders: “…as Lord Bolton said.”

She sharply turned to Littlefinger. She was under no illusion that ‘paying respects to her family’ had merely been a pretext for getting away from listening ears. But down here, sound carried. She jerked her head at the ostensibly disinterested guards: _They can hear every word we say!_

“I wouldn’t worry.” Littlefinger said calmly. He reached into his robes and withdrew a candle, lighting it on the torch and placing it at the foot of the sarcophagus. At Sansa’s look of alarm, a small smirk appeared on his lips. “It’s smart of you to be wary, but you needn’t be. Sound carries down here, yes, but these alcoves have… advantageous properties. Lean forward a little, behind the wall.” He demonstrated, inclining his head in what to the guards had to look like a respectful bow. After a moment’s hesitation, Sansa followed his example. Nothing happened that she was aware of, but Littlefinger nodded. “Good. The walls of this alcove are redirecting our words in a way that no one, barring they’re standing right where we are, can hear anything but mutterings. We’re free to talk now.”

“How can you be sure?” Sansa asked, unwilling to raise her voice above a whisper.

“I tested it. Never simply rely on these things if you want your secrets to remain so. I promise you, those men can strain their ears as much as they want – as Bolton no doubt ordered them to – but they won’t hear anything of value.” The smugness of his smile grew a little more pronounced, as it always did in those moments when it was justified. “So? What do you make of your new betrothed?”

Sansa glanced one last time at the guards before focussing her attention on Littlefinger. With everyone else she would assume the question to be idle small talk. But with him, nothing was ever just idle. “He seems courteous enough.” she said neutrally.

“So it would seem.” Petyr agreed. “What else is he?”

Sansa thought back to the young man’s behaviour. How he greeted her; his posture; how his expressions changed and whether they belied his words – things that Littlefinger had taught her to look for. “He is proud.” she surmised. “Proud to be a Bolton now instead of a Snow. His posture straightened when Lord Bolton called him his son.”

“Good.” Littlefinger gave her a half-smile. As always, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It will be interesting to see what he makes of the name now that he has it. He seems to strive for his father’s approval. Though I wonder…” He didn’t finish the thought and instead prompted, “Go on. Was there anything to cause you to worry?”

Sansa didn’t have to think long. It was something in Ramsay Bolton’s eyes; a glint that she had seen before. First in Joffrey, and then in Cersei. His last comment about her parents matched that impression. Sansa looked over Littlefinger’s shoulder, just to make sure the guards hadn’t moved any closer. They hadn’t. “He is cruel.” she said in a whisper.

Petyr’s smile dimmed a little. “Yes, I thought so, too. In that he seems to be nothing like his father.”

“What, so Lord Bolton isn’t a cruel man?” Sansa asked bitingly.

“No; he is, but he hides it better.”

Sansa’s face turned stony. “Then what is your plan? Enough with the riddles. Why are we doing this?”

“Why are we having this conversation?”

“No, why did you choose him to marry me? You said yourself you knew almost nothing about him. Now you’re saying that he is cruel and ambitious, which is not a good combination. And when Stannis Baratheon attacks, they may not hold the North for long, anyway.”

Petyr chuckled. “I’ll tell you the same I told Lord Bolton: I don’t believe Stannis will prevail. He doesn’t know the North like the Boltons do, and neither do his men. He is a foreigner. The Northerners are stubborn and they will not bow to him easily. Especially now that the Starks, in your person, have returned to Winterfell.”

“So I am the Bolton’s legitimacy.” Sansa said. The wheels were turning in her head, drawing her conclusions. “Their hold over the North isn’t that secure either, is it?”

Petyr nodded, and for the first time he looked almost impressed. “Indeed not. You see, the remaining lords, much like you, have not forgotten who murdered your brother and mother at the Red Wedding, and they have no more love for the Boltons than they do for Stannis. Right now they are watching and waiting who will come out on top in the coming war. Your marriage is the only thing that could sway them. The Boltons depend on you; for you are the key to the North.”

“So why would you want to help them?!” Sansa demanded, forgetting to be quiet. _Why are you making me support the men who killed my family?_ She had gotten good enough at controlling herself that the second part didn’t make it past her lips, but Petyr still had to get the gist from her tone.

He raised his hands placatingly. “Believe me, Sansa, I have no intention of ‘helping them’. I had a theory about the man you’re about to marry. Now that we’ve met him, and the charming Lady Walda, I’m pleased to say I was right.”

“What theory?”

“You’ll see. For now let’s just say, I think the Boltons will take care of themselves.”

Sansa frowned. She hated it when she couldn’t follow Baelish. She hated herself even more for her anxiousness that she was disappointing him by doing so. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” he said. “For now, just play their game and observe, and in time you will have your revenge, I promise you.” Rising to his feet, he planted a kiss on the crown of her head. Then he reached into his robes for a second time and produced another candle, placing it before her. "Go on. Everything makes more sense when you shine a light on it. And I imagine you will want to mourn him properly"

Confused, Sansa looked up and her breath caught. In her anxiousness and anger, she hadn’t even stopped to look whose tomb they had stopped at and whose face was illuminated by the dancing flames: from the alcove, the cold stone eyes of her father stared back at her. Ned Starks’ stone likeness was as tall as her, his face chiselled with the attention to detail of an expert stone mason.

 _It looks nothing like him_ , Sansa thought, staring at that empty expression on her father’s face. It reminded her more of the severed head on the wall of the Red Keep than of her living, breathing father. Unlike then, she forced herself to look, standing frozen to the spot. Guilt, anger, sorrow; she didn’t know what to feel when she looked at him. It was all buried under years of trying her hardest not to acknowledge it, not to think about it at all, because if she did she might have succumbed to overwhelming pressure of King’s Landing and thrown herself off the parapets. The only thing that filled her mind was the look of smug satisfaction on Joffrey’s face and the sound of the sword slicing down.

Petyr’s breath ghosted against her cheek. “I’ll leave you to it, my lady.” he said quietly. His footsteps receded into the distance, leaving Sansa alone with her hurt and the flickering light of the tomb.

* * *

As torn up as the courtyard of Winterfell had been, it was somewhat of a shock to find that inside the castle, not much seemed to have changed. As Sansa walked down the narrow stone hallways, she found that she still knew them by heart. That the next turn right would lead her down to the servants quarters, or that a small opening in the stone opened up into an almost hidden alcove where Arya’s used to love to hide. It was a strange feeling. She almost expected her mother to appear round the next corner and start fussing over her black hair and dress. She never liked that colour. Back then, Sansa hadn’t either.

She shook her head in an attempt to dispel those musings. It wouldn’t do her any good to dwell on the past. She focused on the back of the mousy chamber maid who was leading her through the maze of the castle, unaware that Sansa could have found her way blindfolded. They were heading for the east side – not a section where she spent a lot of time, _before_. Sansa frowned. For some reason, she had expected to be housed in her old room until the marriage ceremony. Abruptly, she remembered none of these people would know which room had been hers. Everyone who would have known was dead.

The though made her stumble, her knees growing weak for a second as the full feeling of being surrounded by enemies _in her own home_ hit her. She had to lean against the wall for support.

“M’lady?” the chamber maid hovered uncertainly a few feet away. “Are you unwell?”

Sansa straightened up, giving the other woman a quick smile. “No, it’s nothing. It has just been a long journey.” The lie flew from her lips with now practiced ease.

The maid’s body relaxed.

Sansa walked once across the room, taking it in. There was just the one bed, a hearth, and no windows. Sparse, but sufficient for a lady, and it was only temporary anyway. The Boltons clearly cared to keep her comfortable so as to not affront her protector. But not enough to give her a room with a window from which she might escape or watch the goings-on, she thought drily.

In the dim glow of the fire that the maid was stoking, a grim smile stole onto Sansa’s face: her hosts clearly didn’t trust her any more than she did them. And they were very right not to. Sansa had every intention of making them pay for what they had done. But until Petyr’s plan came to fruition, she would have to convince the Boltons that she was nothing more than a pretty, submissive little bird – not the daughter of the woman whose throat they had slit. The sister of the man they had beheaded in cold blood.

Anger rushed through Sansa, coursing hot in her veins. With an effort, she fought it back down. People used to say that the Starks’ blood ran with ice. She would have to remember that the next time she saw her hosts’ faces again. She needed to have a clear head if wanted to survive in this lion’s den. For that was what it was, even thought it was masquerading as her childhood home.

A sharp yelp of pain took her out of her thoughts of revenge. Sansa turned around to see the maid doubled over and clutching her fingers, a handful of small, burning logs spilling out of the fire place and onto the carpet. Sansa quickly gathered up her frock and hurried over, stomping on the flames before they could take root. Thankfully she had been too preoccupied to take off her riding boots, or else she might have burned herself in the process.

Once she had made sure that the last embers had been put out, she turned her attention back to the maid. She was on her knees, looking up at her wide-eyed and clutching her wrist. Her mouth was pressed shut, but it couldn’t quite muffle the pained breaths escaping her. Her hands displayed burn blisters, angry red and weeping. With the utmost care, Sansa bent down to examine the other woman’s palms. “Does it hurt badly?” she inquired.

The maid shook her head. “N-no. M’lady, I’m so sorry…you shouldn’t have…I didn’t mean…my fingers slipped…”

“Ssh, ssh, it’s alright.” Sansa tried to calm her down. The poor woman looked close to a panic. Now that Sansa looked at her properly, she was quite young to be a maid. There was fear in her eyes in the brief second she met Sansa’s eyes before she pulled her hand away and hurried back to the fire place. She gave a muffled hiss of pain as she started pushing the spilled logs back into their place.

It couldn’t be her she was scared of, Sansa was certain. More likely she was deathly afraid of disappointing her master. Roose Bolton couldn’t be a pleasant man to work for. Sansa knelt down beside the distraught woman and gave her a smile: “It’s alright. What’s your name?”

The maid paled. “G-Greta, m’lady.” she stammered, her burned hand clenching around a blackened log painfully.

Sansa gently pried it away from her. “That’s a nice name, Greta. You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

Greta nodded. “Yes. M’lord’s soldiers found me in the winter town and offered me a roof if I served him. Please, I’m sorry, I’m not very good; I’ll try harder.”

“Calm down, it’s alright.” Sansa examined the maid’s hand as she talked. The burn wasn’t that bad, but there were still some nasty red patches that would scar if they weren’t treated. “I used to have a very inexperienced chamber maid, back in the capital. We made it work and after a time she was as good as any of them. Accidents happen, there’s no shame in it. But you should let the maester have a look at this.” she finished.

“Yes, m’lady.” Greta nodded hesitantly. “But – the maester doesn’t have time to treat us servants. Only the soldiers and the builders.”

Sansa grimaced. Why was she even surprised? She gave Greta a stern look. “We’ll see about that. Maester Luwin always made time for everyone. I don’t see why Lord Bolton’s maester shouldn’t.” She stood up and offered the maid her hand. “Come. Let’s see this man and explain it to him.”

Greta blinked at her in surprise. “That’s – you don’t have to do that for me, m’lady.” she blurted out.

“Yes, I do. I’m not about to let my maid or any other servant be treated like less than anyone else in this castle.” _And I need friends here. The Boltons may hold Winterfell for now, but it will never be theirs_.

* * *

Sansa still knew Winterfell well. She spent the afternoon walking the hallways and the courtyards, relishing in the feeling of being home again.

She was aware that the Bolton soldiers watched her every step, but Sansa didn’t care. She wasn’t doing anything suspicious; just a long-lost daughter relishing in the feel of being home again. And it did feel good to be back here, certainly, but more importantly it was good to let herself be seen. She noticed the people stop to look at her, felt their gazes on her back. A Stark was back in Winterfell, and they had to remember what that meant.

At one point, she spied the tall figure of Lord Bolton up on a battlement, talking intently with his maester. Sansa stiffened briefly, but continued walking. Maester Wolkan had seemed quite caught off guard by her and Greta’s appearance in his study, and apparently he had gone running to his master immediately after they had left. Though it was unlikely either of the men would make a big fuss about it. It was just about a serving girl, after all.

Sansa had been very polite towards Wolkan, to be sure. A maester was often the most well-connected man in the castle, and it wouldn’t hurt to befriend him. It hadn’t taken more than politeness to get him to take a look at Greta’s burns. Contrary to the maid’s earlier statement, Wolkan didn’t seem to take offense to the fact that he was treating a serving girl, either, and had been quick to fetch some soothing balm for her hands. He had struck Sansa as a bit timid, but not aloof or decrepit like Grand Maester Pycelle. She didn’t know how deep his loyalty to Roose Bolton went, but she would find that out in time.

Eventually her walk came to a stop atop the western wall of the Castle – with a trio of Bolton soldiers fairly close behind her – and she leaned on one of the merlons, looking out across the Winter Town below that stretched out from the castle. The stark, cold wind bit into her skin, sharpening her mind. It was as good a place to gather her thoughts as any. Her father, she remembered, had often come up here.

The one place she hadn’t yet visited was the godswood. Sansa had spied the red leaves of its central weirwood tree rising above the walls of the courtyard and her feet had almost taken her towards it, but she had stopped herself. That place was the final piece of _home_ she was missing, and she was trying to save it for the marriage ceremony. She counted on being able to stand next to Ramsey Bolton well enough for a few minutes, but just in case something happened or fear would threaten to overwhelm her again, she could cling to that feeling and remember why she was here. Her one weakness right now were her emotions. At least for the time being she had to keep them out of sight and present a pleasing, unthreatening visage to her hosts. She hid a grim smile in her coat: if nothing else, three years in King’s Landing had trained her in that skill. Maybe some good would finally come of that cursed journey south.

“Am I interrupting?”

Littlefinger’s voice intruded into her thoughts. Sansa turned to look at him. Up here, he had donned another coat on top of his riding coat. _Not used to the cold_ , she thought with a little bit of glee. “No.” she said. “How is your planning with Lord Bolton coming along?”

“He is not very forthcoming with details how he plans to secure the North.” Littlefinger waved it away, approaching her. “While he needs my knights of the Vale fighting on his side, he is distrustful of our intentions, at least to the point of a certain wariness. You will have to do your best to dissuade him of that notion.”

“So I shall.” Sansa nodded.

“But at the very least he informed me that he has no plans to press Stannis quite yet. It seems Bolton wants to let him come to Winterfell rather than engaging him in the field.”

“Is that wise?” Sansa inquired. She was not very well-versed in military matters, but allowing an enemy to walk up to one’s gates uncontested did not seem like a prudent plan.

“He believes that Stannis does not have the strength to take Winterfell at present, and I agree with his assessment. Stannis will tire his army out if he chooses to march here, and the rest of the North will see an attack on Winterfell as an attack on all of them. Especially as long as a Stark is in the castle.”

“I seem to be an enormous tactical advantage.” Sansa muttered, more to herself.

“Indeed, you are.” Littlefinger turned to her. His expression was unreadable. “I heard you got into an argument with Maester Wolkan. Something about a chamber maid.”

“I wouldn’t call it an argument.” Sansa corrected. “We only sought his help with an injury. That is his profession.”

“And of course, because Lady Stark herself asked him, he gladly obliged despite having wounds of more important people to tend to.” His fingers drummed against the stone. “Sansa, you’re smarter than this. You might have just offended our most useful man in this castle. For an unimportant chamber maid.”

“Not unimportant.” Sansa bristled. Did he think she was a fool? “She got good treatment thanks to me, and tonight she will tell of it to the other servants. Most of them are not Bolton retainers; they’re loyalty to them runs no deeper than their coin and threats. But now there is a Stark in Winterfell again, and they will remember what that means. It was a cheap way to earn their loyalty.”

“I see.” Littlefinger nodded. His eyes held that glimmer that meant he was pleased with her. “No one pays attention to the servants…”

“…so they’ll hear things that I won’t. With some work, they’ll be my eyes and ears in the castle.”

“Good. Still, the maester would have been the better choice. He is a vacillating man and easy to manipulate. He can serve us well.”

“Then he will. I was courteous with him, and I’ll make sure to humour him in the future.” Sansa promised. “After the ceremony, I’ll…” she broke off abruptly.

“My lady?” Littlefinger asked, raising an eyebrow.

“…It’s nothing.” Sansa managed, not looking at him. Her gaze roamed over the courtyard below. For a moment, she had thought she had seen something, down by the kennels. A man with a gaunt stature; a face familiar from _before_. But now he was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had only imagined it.

After all, it couldn’t have been Theon. After what he had done, he couldn’t still be here as if nothing had changed. He couldn’t have lived through the Boltons takeover. Could he?

Once again, Sansa felt hot anger course through her veins as her thoughts fixed on her former childhood friend. _Why should he be alive when so many better men have died?!_


End file.
